Violated
by seshatnedjset
Summary: John has been kidnapped again, but this time it is a more personal attack. Can he hide it from Sherlock? Warnings: non-con
1. Chapter 1

Authors Note: Made a few amendments to this chapter, nothing major.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

John couldn't help but think, once he came to, that really, Sherlock should have mentioned, alongside his habits of playing the violin and not speaking for days - "you'll get kidnapped so often you'll get used to it". He opened his eyes, but was greeted with darkness, and he now felt the blindfold wrapped around his head. Half a second later he also realised that he was naked, lying face down on a hard surface, and that his hands were tied above his head. Dread pooled in his stomach as he considered the possible reasons for this and he started pulling against his bonds. He drew a few deep breaths in an effort to calm himself, and stiffened as he heard a sound - he wasn't alone. Footsteps grew nearer, the rustle of cloth, another person breathing. He swallowed down the panic as he felt a hand ghost up his body, from his toes to the top of his head – fingertips brushing so lightly.

"What's going on?" he asked, but his question was met with silence. Then he heard more rustling of cloth, and realised with a sinking horror that the man was removing his own clothes. "Who are you, what are you doing?" he demanded, his voice betraying only a small hint of the terror he was feeling at the situation. The only reply was a tutting sound, and a hand pressed against his mouth. As the hand was removed he started to say something - anything - to make it clear he wasn't going to just obey, but was prevented as a mouth replaced the hand, tongue thrusting into his open mouth, hands grasping his hair, pulling painfully. He couldn't prevent the small sound of complaint from escaping. The man broke off suddenly, and ran his thumb across John's bottom lip. John flinched as he felt hot breath against his neck, and the hand still in his hair gave a yank. He heard the intake of breath as the man sniffed him, before kissing and nibbling at his collarbone. "Please, don't" John managed to get out, before the hand was back over his mouth, and the man leant down to whisper harshly in his ear "Hush". Just that, one word. John struggled even harder against the rope binding his wrists as the man moved his mouth down John's neck, and across his shoulders, kissing and biting as he went. John felt sick as he realised he was being marked. As soon as the hand over his mouth was removed he shouted "Stop, don't do this!", trying his best to move away from the man, but not succeeding in getting very far. His head jerked to the side as the man cuffed him, blackness creeping into his vision momentarily, as he was stunned by the force of the blow. He didn't have time to recover before he was hit again, and for a while he couldn't focus on anything. When he finally came back to himself, the man was running his hands over John's lower back as his mouth kissed and bit John's shoulder. There was cloth in his mouth, something soft, tasting vaguely of washing powder, and another strip of something tied round to keep it in place.

The panic hit him with force the moment he felt those unwelcome fingers trail down between his buttocks. His vision tunnelled and he thrashed as much as he could in his restraints. The gag prevented him from shouting, but it couldn't stop the keening noise he was only partially aware he was making. But his struggles and wordless complaints did nothing to stop the man currently violating him with his fingers. Part of John knew he should stop resisting, should relax as much as he could to avoid serious injury, and he tried, stilling momentarily, but when the man withdrew his fingers, and he felt the blunt head of his cock press against him, that sane, rational part was drowned by the more primal urge to get the hell away now, the fight or flight response fuelled by adrenaline and completely useless to a man tied up like this. The horror and the fear and the vile itchy feeling of the man touching him, taking him, marking him was too much for his rational mind to take, he tensed and struggled the whole time, repeating the word no in his head over and over, prevented from screaming it out had to fight back the desire to vomit as he felt the man shudder to his end inside him, but couldn't prevent the whimper that left his throat as the man pulled out of him swiftly, he felt like he'd been split wide open. The next thing he felt was a needle in his neck, and he fell into blessed darkness.

Author's note: Reviews would be very welcome indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Authors Note: Made a few amendments to this chapter too.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

John woke up confused , and lay still for several minutes, not knowing where he was, until what had happened came rushing back to him. He was lying on the floor of the warehouse – untied, re-clothed and alone. He sat up and winced – he was undoubtedly bruised at the very least, he supposed there might be more serious injury, but he couldn't tell at the moment. He dragged himself to a standing position, and waited until he could be sure he wasn't about to collapse, before looking around for the exit. He frowned as he realised that the warehouse was completely empty – no sign of the bed to which he'd been tied, nor any other evidence that anything had happened there. Was this even the same warehouse?

Limping his way over to the door, John cautiously pushed it open. There was no-one in sight, and he slowly began the walk home. It took him over an hour to reach the flat – and he was utterly relieved to find that Sherlock was not home. The last thing he needed was to have his friend deducing him. Still, empty as it was, the flat felt safe, and asthe adrenaline that had been keeping him going leeched out of his system, he started to really feel the effects of what had happened.

The first thing he did was to go to the bathroom, where he threw up everything that was in his stomach. He sat on the bathroom floor for a few minutes, until he recognised that the shivering meant he was going into shock and that he should probably do something about that. He stripped off his clothes and threw them to the floor – they would have to be got rid of. He got into the shower and turned it on as hot as he could bear, and stood under the spray until the shivering stopped. It was only then that he felt the stinging sensations on his wrists, and noticed that he'd torn the skin quite badly during his struggles. He observed other marks upon himself as well – finger shaped bruises wrapped around his hips, there was a bit mark at the side of his stomach, and he again felt the helplessness as those marks were inflicted - and the others he couldn't see – on his back and his neck. He retched again, though there was nothing left for him to throw up, and turned the water up even hotter. He grabbed his shower gel and washed himself vigourously, ignoring the sting as the foam found its way into the abrasions.

By the time he'd finished washing and scrubbing his skin was pink and raw, and the water was running cold. He got out and dried himself off, wrapping the towel around his hips. He grabbed up his clothes from the floor, and went to his room, locking his door behind him. He stripped off the towel, collected his first aid kit from under the bed, and began the process of checking himself over and patching himself up. He was relieved that none of his injuries required stitches, which may have necessitated a trip to the hospital, and questions he wasn't prepared to answer. It wasn't just Sherlock he wanted to hide from. He slathered on antiseptic cream wherever it was needed and was just sticking on a fourth plaster when he heard the door banging and footsteps on the stairs – Sherlock was home. He felt a strange mix of safety and apprehension at the other man's presence in the flat, but pushed away the latter feeling to concentrate on his task.

His wrists were worrying – he had to bandage them up tightly, and resigned himself to long sleeves for the next few weeks. Lastly he knelt on the floor facing away from his mirror and, as best he could, assessed the damage. His buttocks, as well as his hips, had finger marks, his arse was swollen and red, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. There wasn't much he could have done about it anyway. He dressed himself – clean underwear, a loose pair of jeans, long sleeved shirt and a baggy jumper. Checking in the mirror he satisfied himself that there was no visible evidence of his injuries, before heading downstairs to face Sherlock.

Author's note: Reviews would be very welcome indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

John signed the prescription and handed it over to the young woman – his last patient of the day. As soon as she left he sat back in his chair and sighed. It had been a long day, and he'd felt the presence of the little brown envelope sitting in his drawer through every appointment. Now he could take the time to look - but suddenly he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Taking a deep breath he ripped it open, and skimmed through the contents, eyes drawn to the relevant parts. He let out the breath in a shudder, losing some of the tension he'd been carrying around for weeks. Clean bill of health. The HIV test was the last result he'd been waiting for – now he felt like he could breathe again. He tucked the test result away with the others in the file marked Johnson, Sam. He felt a slight twinge of professional guilt at having submitted his bloodwork under a false name, but using his own was not going to happen.

He started packing up his things – time to go home. At the end of a long day he was supposed to look forward to that – he used to. Whether it was home to a cup of tea and some crap telly, or a rooftop chase after a murderer. But home meant Sherlock – and Sherlock meant expending a vast amount of effort on trying to act normal. How he'd managed it the past three months he had no idea, but Sherlock had been occupied with several cases, and various experiments (he'd been unable to eat at the kitchen table for two weeks), so he'd been left alone quite a bit, which helped, but Sherlock had been in one of his bored moods for a couple of days now, and it was probably only a matter of time before he occupied himself by deducing John. It was lucky he'd always had nightmares – just a new set to add to the mix now, and while he was certain Sherlock could tell when he'd had a nightmare (even if it had been one of the quiet ones), he was also sure Sherlock couldn't deduce what the nightmare had been about. But just trying not to jump when Sherlock came up behind him, or touched him was difficult, and he hated being dragged out to crime scenes – the detectives weren't stupid (no matter what Sherlock might say on the subject), and would recognise it if he started acting like a victim. He'd never been much of a man for unnecessary touching, so that wouldn't stand out, but seriously – three months and he was still jumping at shadows. Hopefully if they did notice they'd put it down to PTSD and ignore it. Hopefully he'd start getting over it soon. But at the moment it still loomed in his mind when he shut his eyes – the fear, the pain, the feel of the man's hands on him, the unclean feeling that made him want to wash.

He also couldn't stop dwelling on the black hole of time stretching between his leaving the flat and waking up in the warehouse. Because he just couldn't remember what had happened. He'd been injected with something, but how? When? Why him? And who? Was he just chosen at random by some nutcase? The injections and the warehouse suggested otherwise. His thoughts always came back to the same place – Moriarty. He had the connections to arrange sedative injections, warehouses, cleaning up operations. And a motive – if not to hurt John directly, then to hurt Sherlock indirectly. This was the reason he had refused to tell Sherlock (or at least, the reason he would admit to himself) – what he didn't know couldn't hurt him, and if hurting Sherlock was Moriarty's plan, then John would make sure it failed.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

He yelled and thrashed, struggling as much as he could, but his voice was muffled by the gag, and his movements restricted by the position his was in - his arms pulled behind his back, bound to his ankles. The restriction, the vulnerable and humiliating position, and the knowledge of what was going to happen combined into a sort of animal panic, feeding upon itself, urging him to get away, to escape, but he could barely move. He was overwhelmed by the fear, so much that he didn't hear the man approaching, and the hand that suddenly appeared on his knee shocked him into stillness. 'Hush, hush' the man whispered, his other hand pushing strands of hair off John's forehead.

The voice was low, quiet, barely more than a breath, but John was sure it was the same man as before. The hands felt the same, he'd had nightmares about those hands, hadn't been able to forget the feeling of them on his skin – and how he'd wished he had Sherlock's ability to delete things. The fingertips were smooth, free of callouses, short nails that trailed down his side, scraping but not scratching, not marking him.

John swallowed the feeling of nausea, forced the terror down, set his brain into triage mode - forget what couldn't be saved, focus on salvaging what you can. John knew he couldn't escape this, so he had to survive it, and make sure it never happened again. Because he couldn't do this again. The first time had been awful, shocking, unimaginable. This time he knew what was coming, he could imagine it, and that made it worse.

The man's hands had been busy opening him up while John's mind had been focussed on keeping calm and ignoring what was being done as best he could. Now he could feel something much larger pushing its way inside him, and he could feel the panic starting to rise up again. He tried to force his mind elsewhere, to escape mentally what he couldn't physically. He had to find a way to get through this, but he couldn't pretend it was someone else, couldn't pretend it wasn't happening. Because it was and it was so real, and immediate and inescapable.

His mind latched onto a memory of sand and hot pain as the bullet slammed its way through his shoulder, of blood and fear, and a plea to a god he didn't really believe in. A will to survive that had faded on his return to London, broken and useless, but surged strong again thanks to his crazy brilliant flatmate, who had not only fixed his leg, but had given him a renewed sense of purpose, something to fight for, someone to protect.

So he would get through this violation, just as he had overcome the violation of metal through flesh. He would survive. And if he was a bit broken again, he could be fixed – Sherlock could fix him. He would endure. And when it was over he would find the man, and kill him. So it could never happen again. So he would never be so broken again.

Author's note: Reviews would be very welcome indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up back on the floor in the warehouse came as no surprise. He'd been redressed again, and that felt just as creepy as before. He was sore, and bruised, but nothing felt life-threatening. He walked outside, not bothering to check for anyone as he crossed the warehouse. Once outside, he threw up in the gutter, and shivered. Shock setting in again. He made it to the main road and hailed a cab back to Baker St, the urge to be home, safe, overrode any fear of being seen in his weakened state. He paid the taxi driver probably far too much, and dragged himself up the stairs to the flat.

Voices drifted through the partly open door – Sherlock and - it sounded like Lestrade. This could be a little tricky. He paused on the threshold, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, and a quick glance down his body to check for anything that would scream his secrets to the men inside. He thought he'd pass muster, no way to see if there were any marks on his face, but the taxi driver hadn't spared him a second glance, so he thought probably not.

"Hello Greg" he called as he walked quickly in, barely sparing a glance at the two men as he made a beeline for the kettle. What could be more normal than John Watson making tea, after all.

"Tea?" he offered to the world at large.

"No thanks" Lestrade replied, walking into the kitchen. "What I would like is for Sherlock to come and make his statement" – he raised his voice for the latter part of the sentence, but was met only with silence from the living room. "See if you can't persuade him to come in later, I've got to go."

John breathed a sigh of relief as Lestrade left the flat, another bullet dodged, another person fooled. Now he just had to get past Sherlock and into the shower without raising any suspicions.

Plonking a cup of tea on the end of the coffee table nearest to Sherlock's head, John, turned with his own cup, and was about to go upstairs when Sherlock called out to him. Turning, he felt a chill run through him as he saw Sherlock's expression – his eyes darting about John's person, a small furrow between his eyes – he was being deduced.

"What is it Sherlock?" he asked, aiming for exasperated, but probably not quite hitting it, judging by the slight change in Sherlock's expression - nothing most people would notice, or recognise, but these past months had taught John to read Sherlock almost as well as Sherlock could read other people, and he could identify concern when it cropped up on his flatmate's face.

"John, I know, no… If you, I mean, is something..." Sherlock stopped, his features scrunched up in annoyance. "John" he started again. "There is something wrong, that you're trying to hide from me, but I can't – I don't know what it is. If you – I know I am not good at, at well" and he waved his hand in an attempt to encompass feelings, empathy, sentiment, "but I, just, if there is anything you need, or if I can help, you do know that I, that I will… that I will – in any way you need. I don't understand why I can't, no" and he cut himself off.

John was impressed, actually, that Sherlock had figured out that an offer to help was not the place for complaining about his own deductive failure, and touched that he would offer his help in such an emotional arena. But mostly he felt relief that Sherlock didn't know his secret. He knew he couldn't protect Sherlock from Moriarty forever, but keeping this from him felt like a small victory somehow.

"Sherlock, I – thank you, but there's nothing, nothing I need. Just, drink your tea." And he tried not to feel guilt at Sherlock's defeated expression, and brief nod. Feeling victorious, and guilty, and dirty, and broken, and used, and angry, and afraid, it was all too much. He backed away, and deposited his tea on the desk in his room, grabbed up some fresh clothing, and locked himself in the bathroom.

Stripping off the clothes he was wearing – depositing them in a pile to be destroyed later, he turned on the shower as hot as it would go. As he went to get in, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror – and had to make a sudden detour to the toilet where he was violently sick. It was obvious now that Moriarty was his attacker, not just the instigator of the attacks. The biting kisses across his back, made at the end of today's ordeal, had formed the letter M in bruises.


	6. Chapter 6

The beep of his alarm startled John out of his blessedly dreamless sleep. He cursed as he hit the off button, he'd only just managed to drop off again a couple of hours ago, having been woken twice by nightmares, and really he couldn't function well on so little sleep. Feeling slightly guilty, he picked up his mobile and called the surgery, leaving a message that he was still ill and wouldn't make his shift that morning. That was the third day in a row he'd done that, but he just couldn't face work. Actually if he was honest with himself he couldn't face leaving the flat.

He'd been out twice since the second Incident - once, with Lestrade, as far as Speedy's, and once as far as the front doorstep, before he'd been forced back inside by a panic attack. Obviously this was not a situation which could be allowed to continue, and he hated himself for being so weak, but the thought that he could be abducted again was overwhelming his determination to keep calm and carry on.

The first attack must have happened somewhere beaten the flat and Tesco, because he remembered leaving to get milk, but no further before waking up in that warehouse. The second attack he'd been on his way home from work, and again, he had no memory of the actual event, just walking down the road, then waking up in ropes. The second time at least he'd been wary of walking by himself, and had been keeping to busy streets and checking his surroundings, so he could think of little that would prevent another incident, other than remaining in 221B, where he was safe.

Going to Speedys with Greg had been ok, because it wasn't far, and he trusted Greg not to let anything happen in the few yards between the doors. Going out somewhere with Sherlock might be ok, except he could never quite trust Sherlock to stay with him - he still had a nasty habit of rushing off and leaving John behind. Though actually, Sherlock had been acting a bit differently since their little chat the other day - there had been actual music played on the violin more often than not, and the experiments had been relatively peaceful and non-messy.

John wasn't sure how he felt about that. He didn't want Sherlock to know what had happened, but Sherlock clearly knew something was up, and was trying to help John in his own way, without prying or demanding answers, which John was grateful for. But it just made him feel guilty for keeping something so huge from his friend. But if Moriarty was trying to hurt Sherlock through John, then keeping quiet was for the best. Expect Sherlock was being affected, even without knowing what the circumstances were. John had been arguing himself in circles for days now, but in the end it came down to - he didn't want to tell Sherlock, because he just couldn't make himself say the words. What was he supposed to say? 'Oh, hi Sherlock, you remember Moriarty. Well, he's developed a habit of kidnapping and raping me. Just thought you'd like to know, do you want some tea?'

Running his fingers through his hair in frustration, John caught sight of the bandage around his wrist, and sighed. Might as well take care of the things he could. He pulled his first aid kit out from under the bed, and went about his routine or removing bandages, and checking injuries. He decided he'd take a shower before rebadging the wounds that needed it, so taking care to cover up as much as he could with dressing gown, pyjamas and towel, he headed to the bathroom.

One thing he couldn't stop himself doing was taking extra long showers. He felt certain that this ought to act as a red flag to Sherlock advertising what was wrong, but once he was under the water, he couldn't relax until he'd scrubbed every inch of himself. His skin was permanently red and he had to make a huge effort to go easy on his face and hands.

Once he'd forced himself out of the spray he rebandaged his wrists and a scratch on his thigh that wasn't healing very well, and shuddered as he looked at his back in the foggy mirror. The bites had started to fade a little, but the M shaped pattern was still clearly visible, and made him feel ill every time he saw it or thought about it. It felt too much like being claimed by Moriarty, and was just another level of wrongness.

He wrapped himself back up in towels and dressing gown and rushed back to his room - more out of character behaviour, but he really needed to be dressed properly around Sherlock - who knew what he might deduce from a glimpse of reddened skin, or bandaged wrist.


	7. Chapter 7

"John, is everything alright?" He was getting sick of hearing that question. He'd had it from Sherlock- well, more of a statement from him, from Mrs Hudson, several times, and now Sarah as well. Though as his employer, he supposed she had every right to ask.

"Fine, Sarah, everything is fine" he looked up at her from his seat behind his desk, his usual mildly puzzled expression pasted on. "Bit tired, you know how it is." Sarah nodded - but he hadn't really expected her to buy it, so wasn't surprised when she didn't just take his words at face value and leave him alone.

"It's just, and don't take this the wrong way or anything" - that didn't sound too promising - "You don't look fine. Is it Sherlock? Has he done s..."

"No, Sherlock hasn't done anything" John winced even as he exclaimed, realising he had just made Sarah think that Sherlock had done something. But the truth was, Sherlock had been doing everything right - for once taking John's hints and not bothering him or trying to wheedle the truth out of him. John closed his eyes, and breathed out slowly. "He hasn't done anything - it's just - it's personal. But everything will be fine, I just, maybe I, I need some time." He made eye contact with his boss again, and she looked at him for a minute before nodding.

"Ok, John. but, just know that I'm here if you need to talk." John smiled and nodded, and felt utterly relieved as Sarah walked out of his office. He should have known she would notice how differently he'd been acting lately. Particularly the fact that he was taking taxis to and from work, and not leaving his office unless absolutely necessary. It was one of the few places he felt safe - there, Scotland Yard - who was going to abduct him from a building full of cops? - and home. And also, though he wouldn't admi it to the man himself, anywhere Sherlock was. He knew that Sherlock would never let anything like that happen to him if he was around.

It had been two weeks since he'd managed to force himself out of the flat and back to work, and his bank balance wasn't going to let him keep getting cabs everywhere for too much longer, but he was not going to risk walking anywhere alone, and the idea of cramming onto a bus or tube full of people was abhorrent. Something was going to have to give sooner or later. He snorted a bitter laugh as he realised it was might just be his sanity.

It was a hectic afternoon, luckily, patients streaming in and out of his office with colds, and sore throats, and ear infections, and non-specific aches and pains, and one small boy with a Lego brick up his nose, which actually made him genuinely smile - it was nice that kids still played with Lego, and not just computer games these days. It all helped take his mind off his troubles, and his anxiety about going home, and his fear that one of these days Sherlock was going to give him one of those looks - the ones where it felt like he could see all the way through to your soul, and know everything about you from your favourite colour to the state of your sheets in 1987 - and just blurt out in his blunt way - 'Oh, yes, you were raped'. Though to be fair to Sherlock, even with his lack of social awareness, tact, and understanding of emotions, he would probably never be quite as unfeeling as that.

Waiting until the taxi he called was waiting outside the clinic entrance, John bade a cheery (he hoped) goodbye to Sarah, who was watching him carefully, and headed home.


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs Hudson greeted him at the door to 221, something she'd taken to doing recently. He had no idea how she knew when he'd be arriving - sometimes he thought she was just like Sherlock, or perhaps a retired spy or something. It made him feel a little uncomfortable, how much reassurance he got from it, but it was nice to feel safe under her watchful gaze - he felt sure that if anyone tried to hurt him on her watch they would be in for a big surprise.

"John, did you have a good day?" She asked brightly, ushering him inside, but not touching him, for which he was grateful. He was ok with touching, but only if he was expecting it, and had time to prepare himself. It seemed to be another of those things Mrs Hudson just knew.

He nodded, and regaled her with the story of the boy with his Lego, and she laughed as always at such tales, before looking more serious as the discordant sound of a violin being roundly abused drifted down the stairs. "He's got a visitor" she explained, sotto voce, which John understood meant Mycroft was there.

"I'd better go and do some damage control then" he said, and started up the stairs. "See you later Mrs Hudson."

He paused outside the door to the kitchen, as a thought miggled at him. While he could hope to keep hiding what had happened from Sherlock – who, for all his brilliance, often missed things relating to emotions, Mycroft was just as brilliant, but with the enhanced social skills and knowledge that meant he'd pick up on the changes in Johns behaviour more easily, and possibly understand the reasons behind them. And he was giving himself away by hovering outside the door – no doubt both men were well aware of his presence.

Steeling himself as if about to face his drill instructor, he entered the room. "Evening Sherlock, Mycroft" he said nodding at each in turn. "Tea?" and he made a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

"No, thankyou John, Mycroft was just leaving" Sherlock called, John could hear the scowl he was surely wearing. He felt a vague sense of relief standing in the kitchen – surely even Mycroft couldn't deduce much from a five second conversation, and there was nothing like Mycroft for distracting Sherlock from everything else around him. He checked inside the kettle for anything that shouldn't be there, and froze as he heard Mycroft's quiet rebuking of Sherlock. There was something about that whispered voice.

He frowned, then shook his head – he was being paranoid. Mycroft was creepy, yes, but he was Sherlock's brother, and the British government. Though he did have a history of kidnapping John and taking him to warehouses. But that was ridiculous. Insane. He shook the thought from his head, and took the finished tea through into the living room. He dumped Sherlock's in front of him as usual, and then handed the other to Mycroft. Or he went to.

As Mycroft reached out to take it John froze, staring at the outstretched hand. Smooth skin, short fingers compared to the length of the hand. Suddenly he knew that these were the hands he had felt on his skin, and he looked up in horror, meeting Mycroft's gaze as he realised that this - this was the man who had raped him twice, and that Mycroft knew he knew.

The cup crashed to the ground as John reached for the gun he'd tucked into his waistband. He stopped when Mycroft's umbrella was pointed at his throat – the cold metal tip pricking his skin.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that John" Mycroft said calmly. Sherlock was staring openly at his brother and his flatmate, genuinely and completely surprised. "Hands out to your side" Mycroft ordered, and John obeyed, holding his hands palm down, resisting the urge to clench them into fists. He wanted to kill Mycroft – he'd promised himself after all. But all he could do was glare at the man, and wait to see what he would do. Mycroft could kill him easily just by leaning forward, the way the blade was positioned. And he had no doubts that the man would have any moral issues in the matter.

"What is going on?" Sherlick demanded, breaking into the silent staring contest. John flicked his eyes over to see his friend looking confused and annoyed. He returned his gaze to Mycroft, and leaned back slightly, experimentally. The tip of the umbrella followed, but stopped short of pricking his skin this time, so he decided he could risk speaking.

"That's a good question, Mycroft. What are you going to do? Kill me? Claim it was self defence? Mycroft's expression didn't change, though John felt the pressure against his throat ease off a little.

"I have no wish to kill you, John" he said.

"Maybe not, but I really want to kill you" John replied. Maybe not the smartest thing to say to a man with a sword. He looked over to Sherlock again, then sighed. He couldn't kill Sherlock's brother, could he. "Just, get out Mycroft."

Mycroft frowned slightly. "And what will you tell Sherlock?" he asked – obviously he'd already deduced John would not be telling anyone else anything. John looked at Sherlock, who was clearly having a hard time remaining still.

"I don't know", he looked back at Mycroft. "The truth probably – I doubt he'd let me get away with anything else." Mycroft stared at him for a while, then nodded.

"I don't suppose he would." He lowered the umbrella slowly, and glanced at his brother. A look of sadness passed swiftly across his face before it was back to its usual impassiveness, and he moved toward the door.

"Just" Mycroft stopped at John's word, "just tell me." Mycroft turned back to John. "Why? Just tell me why?" John finished. Mycroft said nothing for nearly a minute, looking down at his umbrella.

"Because I could", he finally stated, looking up at John again. "Because I wanted to. Because I wanted you. Because I wanted something my dear brother can never have. Because I wanted what I couldn't have, so I took what I could." He smiled coldly at that. "Because I could, John" he repeated as he walked out of the flat, leaving John and Sherlock standing in silence.


	9. Chapter 9

John could feel the intensity of Sherlock's gaze, but couldn't bring himself to look up at his flat mate,keeping his eyes fixed on the rug. He had no idea how Sherlock was going to react to the knowledge that he had been raped by his brother, and thinking about it, he had no idea how was going to react to it. He'd been so convinced it was Moriarty, that it was Mycroft seemed almost unbelievable. Even when he'd been going for his gun, his instincts all telling him the truth, part of his brain had been completely thrown by the concept.

"John!" The silence had stretched on for so long, that when Sherlock broke it, John was startled enough to flinch. "John, you said you would tell me the truth - then do so. I, I fear I am allowing sentiment to interfere with my deductions, and I cannot - please, John. What did Mycroft do?"  
>Sherlock had moved closer during his speech, and his feet were now within John's view. John closed his eyes before lifting his head, drawing in a deep breath before finally meeting those piercing eyes. This was it. No more the truth was so much worse for Sherlock than he'd ever have imagined.<p>

"Sherlock, sit down, please." John was impressed his voice came out quite so evenly. "I can't talk with you hovering over me like that." Sherlock, for once, did as he was told with no argument, pout, or eye roll, and took a seat in his usual chair. John did likewise, and started to talk. Considering how hard he found it to start, once he had he couldn't stop. The whole story came out in a rush, like it had been waiting inside him all this time, and was now flooding out, escaping while it could. He explained how he had been so convinced it was Moriarty, why he had tried to keep it a secret from Sherlock, and his promise to himself to kill the man.

John had been able to look, if not into Sherlock's eyes, then at least in his general direction during most of the explanation, but now, as he came to the end, he couldn't do it, and found himself stating down at the rug again.  
>"It was when he hushed you earlier, it was just like he hushed me. I think part of me knew right away, but I tried to convince myself I was wrong. But then, when he held out his hand for the tea, and I saw those hands, just like the ones that had touched me, and I just reacted. I still don't understand. I mean, he's always been a bit creepy, but I thought he was one of the good guys. And I don't, I just don't understand how, or why he would..." John broke off at a banging sound - Sherlock had pushed a pile of books onto the floor. It wasn't until he looked up that he realised he'd been crying. Sherlock didn't look like he was doing much better - he was even paler than usual, and his mouth was set.<p>

"John." His name was an expression of sorrow, an entreaty, and a balm all at once. "John, what My- what he did, I cannot begin to apologise to you. That he is my brother sickens me, and I will never think of him as such again. I, he, the reasons that he gave, it is partly my fault, and I can understand if you no longer want me here, but if you want, I will kill him, or help you to do so." Sherlock leapt from his chair to kneel in front of John's. "I will do whatever it takes for you to recover from this violation."

John didn't know what to say to this outburst. It was certainly one of Sherlock's more emotional moments. He knew that Sherlock had obviously been able to deduce parts of what had happened, and that Mycroft had as much as admitted to what he had done in front of Sherlock, but a part of him had been afraid Sherlock would not believe him. Blood is thicker than water after all, and Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, while he had known John such a short time. That he was so unequivocally on his side made John feel relieved and safe and warm.

There was also a part of him that longed to take Sherlock up on his offer to kill, or help him kill, Mycroft, but there was no way he could let him. While he had wanted to kill the man who had raped him, he was no believer in an eye for an eye, or any of that. He was a doctor and a soldier. He wanted justice - but there was no way Mycroft would be locked up for this - or for anything probably - and he wanted to know that it would never happen again to him, or anyone else. From what Mycroft had said, it had been a cross between his own desire for John, and wanting to ruin Sherlock's friendship with him, that drove him to it - a set of circumstances that would be unlikely to occur again. And now that Sherlock knew, there was no way he would ever let Mycroft do anything to John ever again. And John could not involve Sherlock in murdering anyone, least of all his own brother.

"No, Sherlock. We can't kill him. Much as I'd like to. But I would like to be sure he will never do it again - to me or anyone else." Sherlock scowled at this, but nodded reluctantly.

"Very well, John. No killing him. And you can be sure I will never let him anywhere near you. I don't know how we can stop him from hurting anyone else. I will give the matter some thought." John nodded, satisfied by this.

"Thank you. But you need to be clear on one thing. None of this is your fault in anyway, and I won't have you blaming yourself. He is the only one who should be blamed. I also could have told you the first time it had happened, you would have figured it out and I would have been spared part of the ordeal. But you didn't know, and I did my best to hide it from you. I don't know why he mentioned you as a reason, but "

"I know" Sherlock interrupted, and John looked at him in surprise. "He said he wanted something I could never have. Because he knew, John, that I wanted you. You are my friend, and my colleague, and my blogger, and my doctor, but I wanted more, and My - he knew, he saw it, and he was jealous that I had found someone that I could have feelings for, and jealous that your were my friend, and so he took what you would never give either of us."

Sherlock stopped abruptly, and turned away. " So you see, it was partly my fault, and even if it weren't, now that you know my true feelings for you, I will understand if you want to leave." John was temporarily stunned into silence, but knew he had to speak soon or Sherlock would take that as an answer.

"Do you want me to leave Sherlock?"

"No, I would much prefer it if you would stay." Sherlock's reply was a relief, as John could not imagine feeling safe anywhere away from him for a while at any rate.

"Then I shall stay. I can't say I am not sh- surprised by what you have said. Sherlock, I didn't have a clue you even, I mean, I thought you were married to your work. And I've never thought, and now is really not the time. But Sherlock. I want to stay. And I want us to be friends, and flatmates, and colleagues. So if that is ok with you, that is what we'll do. And we'll work out how to keep him away, and I'll work out how to get over it all, and we'll work everything else out as it comes. If that's ok with you?"

"Yes, John. It is. And we will." Sherlock tentatively smiled at John, and he found himself smiling back for the first time in too long.


End file.
